The next morning as we get back out onto the highway heading for the west coast, we do not enjoy the perfect drive. The Caddie’s vapor locking situation has reached a state of maximum frustration. Now we drive for a half hour or so, the engine vapor-locks and we are forced to sit at the side of the road while we wait for it to cool down enough to restart and continue, this usually takes ten or fifteen minutes. We begin to wonder if there is something we can do to prevent the vapor locking. Vapor locking is caused by the gasoline being heated up in the fuel line and vaporizing before it gets to the carburetor. This causes the fuel to stop flowing until the vaporized gasoline cools enough to return to liquid. We have long and serious discussions as we try to solve this problem. We reason that we need to insulate the fuel line from the heat generated by the engine block, clothes pins would be perfect. We know from past experiences dealing with the Ford flat-head engines of our teenaged years that wood clothes pins attached at one inch intervals along the length of the fuel line transfer enough heat away to prevent vapor locking in some cases. Those old Ford flat-head V-8's were notorious for their vapor locking problems. Of course we have no clothes pins, but we must think of something. The situation is becoming dangerous, if we stall out in the wrong place, say, on a curve, or just over a hill, we could be clobbered by following traffic because there are few, if any, shoulders let alone wide spots along side the road to permit pulling over. We, of course, finally do stall out at a potentially dangerous spot, Ed runs back to the top of the hill we have just crested waving an empty potato chip bag to warn traffic to slow down. Joseph and I push and coast the Caddie down to the bottom of this slight hill, where we find relative safety precariously and just barely off the side of the road. We soak rags (nee, our socks) in water and tie them along the length of the fuel line. It works! The Caddie fires up and we continue on down the highway. We are cautious, we drive slowly and do not run the air conditioning, we even run the heater try to keep the overall engine heat down. When we are safely able to, we pull over to the side and spill water onto the rags. We are miserable, but, it works . . . . for a while, it then vapor locks again. We wait. Finally, we are able to continue. We limp intoTuxla Guiterrez looking for a garage, hopeful that the problem can be solved.

However, there is more to getting the problem solved than solving the problem. The first task is to try to muster up the Spanish to describe the problem. It goes without saying that the car will not vapor lock in the presence of the mechanics, quite the contrary, it ran perfectly. We speak with a very patient mechanic for a very long time. We find that the jargon of the car repair business, difficult in English, is almost completely unfathomable in Spanish. After what seems like an eternity of bi-lingual gymnastics, the Caddie is placed into a work stall and a team of mechanics gather round; looking, poking, taking off the air cleaner, checking various nuts and bolts to make sure they are tight and just talking about the situation and I assume, potential remedies. They might have well have been speaking Chinese. We understood nothing. We decided, we really had no choice,  that we must just let them tackle it their own way. We would just watch and if they started to take something apart too big, or too unrelated to the problem, we would simply have them stop. It was very nerve wracking, no fun, and not humorous at all. To make things even worse, the temperature inside this WWII surplus metal Quonset hut building seemed to be about 130·. After about an hour of team work, the original mechanic returned to tell us that the car was now fixed. We noticed however that he had no bill to present. We also knew that the car had not been fixed. We asked for the price of the repair. Looking down, the mechanic hesitantly replied, “Dos cientos pesos” (two hundred pesos) about sixteen dollars. We didn’t mind paying the sixteen bucks, the price was cheap, after all four men had worked on the car for well over an hour, but we knew darn well we were going to have the same problem as soon as we drove away. Joseph balked, he had me ask for the owner of the shop. I did. Holding up his hand to his face, while putting his index finger and thumb about one eighth inch apart and the mechanic said, “Momentito, por favor” and walked away. We once again waited. We were well into “Mexico time” by now, but waiting under these circumstances was very taxing on our patience. But, we really had no choice, we had asked to speak with the owner, and they were courteously granting our desire. We thought he would be on the premises, (American logic?) and readily available, but, had we considered all factors we would have realized that he might well be asleep at this time of the day. The reality was that if it were not for us and our broken down car, the whole shop would probably be taking siesta. We had put ourselves into a very untenable position by asking to see the owner. After another half hour passed, the owner came into the shop. He politely asked what the problem was, we felt like complete fools. We explained as best we could. He listened very carefully and motioned that we follow him over to the Caddie where he instructed one of his mechanics to raise the hood. We watched as he looked intently at everything, he asked his men a few questions then gave them some instructions. The original mechanic quickly brought out a fender cover, (never used before) he covered the fender and went to work removing the fuel line from the carburetor. He then inserted the end of the fuel line into a coke bottle brought by yet another mechanic, while a third took the drivers seat and cranked the starter. Fuel shot powerfully through the line and into the coke bottle, assuring that the fuel pump was working. The “maestro” looked carefully and thoughtfully, then from his shirt pocket produced a small pocket knife, opened the blade and with the demeanor of a trained surgeon, used it to dramatically and poignantly, extract from inside the carburetor where the fuel line attached, a small filter about an inch long. No one said a word as we waited for a sign, he held it up for us to see, it was almost completely clogged up. He smiled in satisfaction as he handed it to one of his “muchachos” with instructions to clean it thoroughly. As his men “closed up,” the maestro, while using a small white rag to clean off the infinitesimal amount of grease that per chanced to soil his finger, explained to us that this was the problem, not the vapor locking that we had assumed. We, of course, had no choice other than to take his word for it. The filter (now perfectly cleaned) was reinserted, the fuel line reattached, the engine started and revved to ridiculously high rpm’s, I guess in order to test it. It passed. The hood was closed, we paid the bill, everyone smiled, we thanked them profusely, and drove away. They were really nice guys. We hoped, but were not 100% convinced, that the filter was the culprit, time would tell. Not wanting any further travel this day, we spent the night in Tuxla Gutiérrez.

The next day, much to our relief and somewhat to our surprise, the Caddie ran perfectly. It not only did not “vapor lock” but seemed to just be running a little stronger in general, even when running the air conditioning. Everything was right with the world again, what a difference a day makes.

We arrived mid-day in Tehuantepec and decided to spend the night. We had heard that this was the land of the “tall women,” maybe we would see some. We checked into the Hotel Tehuantepec, posted some letters and took a look around. We failed to see any of the “tall women.”

We were not destined to stay in Tehuantepec, we were on toward the coast a short distance away at Salina Cruz, where we stayed an additional night before discovering La Ventosa. One thing in Salina Cruz, that night we heard a knock at our hotel door. Another American staying in the same hotel came to us clad only in a towel, as though he had just stepped out of the shower. He had a very serious problem. The poor devil had been sun bathing nude laying on his back at the beach and had fallen asleep. The resulting sunburn he showed us was alarming. The entire area normally protected by one’s bathing suit was, literally, lobster red. He was in a lot of pain, probably suffering sun poisoning as well, and this was complicated by the fact that because of the extreme pain, he could not wear clothing over this very critical area. He asked that we go to the “farmacia” for him to get Bactine or what ever we thought might help. We of course did, in addition to Bactine we brought vinegar and recommended a vinegar bath. Of course this hotel did not have tubs, only showers. We did take note not to sunbath nude on the beach, lest the same thing happen to us. The next morning we were on our way.

We found that La Ventosa is just a place along the beach, not really a town. It has one restaurant (with a bar) and for accommodations its only “hotel,” is not a hotel at all. It is a very large, well built, two room palapa erected right on the beach. The owner (and proprietor) was a young man, (about 25) who simply called himself Lopez, he lived in the back room of the palapa. He proudly showed it off to us, it was nice with a large “matrimonial” sized hamaca, almost as centerpiece, straw mats for flooring, a screened window, and unlike any other palapa we’d seen, completely walled in. He, or someone, had spent quite a bit of time building this edifice. The name La Ventosa connotes wind, and the thought occurred that he might have to rebuild it every year. The larger front part of the palapa was open to the ocean; we were invited to put our hamacas wherever we chose. We selected a spot in a corner near the back. We thought it odd that we were the only ones here. Lopez charged us five pesos (once again, forty cents) a night, our things would be secure, that was part of the “service.” If we wanted cold drinks or anything else, just let him know and he would have it brought along with the stuff from Salina Cruz which he had delivered every day or every other day or whenever. And aside from a small outhouse we were invited to use, the ocean would be our bathroom. We would bath, brush our teeth, and everything else right in the ocean. This palapa was Lopez’s living. After settling in, Joseph struck up a conversation with Lopez and asked him why there was no one else here; Lopez reluctantly told us there had been, but the Federales had just recently paid a nocturnal visit and scared everyone out of the area. No arrests had been made but everyone had left. The thought of Federales gave us a chill. We did have marijuana and the thought of a Mexican jail was devastating. We resolved to be extra careful. (We, however, gave no thought of getting rid of our bush, we reasoned instead that we would be safer and less apt to harassment, now that the area had been “cleaned out.”) We saw the resident Federale a day or so later, he looked us over and it was obvious that he was keeping on eye on Lopez’s palapa. He was big, very big. He had a pearl-handled .45 sticking out of his waistband and did not have even the remnant of a smile line on his face, I could tell immediately that he never had any vestige of a sense of humor. Do not crack wise with this guy, don’t even look at him if you can avoid it without appearing guilty. This guy was instant paranoia. He was very intimidating. He scared the shit out of me.

La Ventosa is located on a bay which is created by a large outcropping of land along its western flank, this protects the interior beach from the pounding shore break of the west facing Pacific. The bay itself faces south, or at least southwest, with the ocean somewhat to our west. A huge shore break relentlessly pounded the west beach, no swimming there, but here in the bay there was protection. There is a light house built on the large hill, we are told that it was built by Cortés the Busy, many years ago. The ocean is tamed by the land between, and the soft lapping of the small bay waves is very peaceful. There is a community (tribe?) of Indios living further down the beach in the jungle. Their ox drawn carts travel daily at waters edge along the beach front creating a feel of slowness, timelessness, and simplicity. The carts have very colorfully painted large wooden wheels, and large, high, sides. Colorfully dressed men walk along side as if to herd, or guide, the ox while goods and children ride inside. There is also a place further down the beach where water backs up from the bay into a river mouth creating little “backbay,” which is fed by the tides. The local Indian men, with young boys at their sides, fish the shallows with throw nets when the tide level is just right, probably as they have for hundreds of years. Pigs roam freely on the beach scavenging for whatever they can find, they often are followed a group of very skinny, almost ghostly looking, dogs close behind, claiming whatever the pigs do not. Chickens range freely, even right into the palapa, there is a very casual feel to this beautiful beach and we enjoy our stay here very much in this laid back little spot. At night it is very quiet with the exception of a rooster crowing with no apparent rhyme or reason, simply at random, but even this boisterous cock seems to have his place in the overall scheme of things. As we lay in our hamacas we can hear insects (and snakes?) crawling and thrashing around in the thatched roof of the palapa, sometimes falling out onto the ground below. Chicken delight, but hopefully they will not fall onto us. No wonder the chickens like to come into the palapa. Fortunately, there are no mosquitos nor other blood sucking insects to plague us. Joseph is especially happy for this.

The restaurant/bar located at the top of the hill provides us with meals as well as our daily allocation of cocktails. During one of our afternoon visits as we enjoy a delicious lunch, a member of a private party at the bar approaches and offers us a drink from a gasoline can! We are confident however that this is not gasoline and happily accept a glass of homemade “mescal”, a very strong beverage distilled from cactus, similar to tequila. We all agree that it is very smooth, the best we have ever tasted. Almost as reward for our beverage appreciation skills, our friend, with a huge smile that showcases the silver rims around his front teeth, pours us all a second glass and wishes us good luck before returning to his group of revelers. We take our time carefully and cautiously sipping this delicious mescal, we don’t have any idea what “proof” it is, but the taste warns of its potency and by the time we have finished the second glass we are in a great mood. Suddenly, at the bar there is a great commotion, it seems there has been an insult! Whether or not it was intentional is not relevant. Voices are raised, a few chairs are scattered across the floor as potential combatants vie for position. Sides are being chosen. They look to us, after all there are three of us, we could possibly be a factor if we chose a side. We are told in no uncertain terms by a very drunken man that we had better get the hell out of there. We realize immediately that whatever the hell is going on is certainly none of our business. We instinctively understand that we must leave immediately or be caught up in what is going on, either witnessing something we shouldn’t, or even worse, having the shit kicked out of us. We are very aware from past observations that machetes are apt to be close at hand, and even more seriously, pistols are sometimes carried and brandished in situations like this. You take a gasoline can full of mescal, add copious amounts of machismo, agitate, and you have a situation that transcends any and all logic. We quietly leave as quickly as we can without literally running out of the place, we want no part of any of this. We have no trouble finding our way back to the relative safety of the Lopez palapa and our hamacas. We enjoy our siesta, never learning what transpired after we left the bar. Later, when we tell Lopez of what we saw at the bar, he simply wags his finger in front of his face and shakes his head, he doesn’t want to hear, and doesn’t want to know. We piece this along with the visit by the federales just before we got here and decide that La Ventosa, although a nice place, has what Bob Dylan might refer to as “ a deep down hungry feelin’ that don’t do no one no good,” (One too many Mornings) and we decide that we will continue along our way. Besides, the lack of freshwater showers and the unrelenting invasion of sand into our every orifice has more than satisfied our “on the beach” appetite, indeed it has turned us into three very salty dogs. Oaxaca is just up the road and the next day we are on our way.

MEXICO CHRONICLES ( Return to Contents)
Copyright 1996 by R.P. Folsom. All rights reserved